


Tomorrow's Come Too Soon

by DaxAeterna



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Shadowbringers - Fandom
Genre: Amaurot, Amaurotines (Final Fantasy XIV), Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Black Rose, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Post-Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers, Post-Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Tales from the Shadows (Final Fantasy XIV), Zodiark - Freeform, bad time line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26545411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaxAeterna/pseuds/DaxAeterna
Summary: In the chaos of another finished battle, the architect of this war walks among the corpses that he could take credit for felling, in a manner of speaking. Bodies spilling blood, bodies bleeding aether, casualties of the steel of his empire and the smell of his black roses. But he discovers the end of this scene is not the one he had written, nor one he would have ever wanted.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 16





	Tomorrow's Come Too Soon

One would think that having seen one battlefield, one had seen them all. A king or an emperor might stroll out after their first few wins, the broken arrows seeming as flower stems, the blood the blooming roses. A temporary museum displaying their treasures. But surely after so many conquests one might be content with the embroidered letters of generals. But the figure strolling this field had seen hundreds and still saw each as eloquent as the last. Unique, and richer for it. Usually this person took in the entire field with pride and wonder. The totality, all at once. The battle, entire. Not as component parts, not separate acts. But the entire stage, the entire play. He smiled at each battle in Meracydia, the armies of the au ra, the clans of miqo'te, and the hordes of the dragons falling at the hands of an emperor. Mind you, he was not the emperor--not in those battles, at least--but it was his victory all the same. The expansion of Garlemald across it’s own continent, and then into their neighbor’s. These: victories he might publicly take credit for. The Dragonsong War, the Autumn War, the War of the Magi. All of them having fields he could smile upon as he walked through them as one might a rose garden.

They were all his creations. One might also think that this proud architect would count the Battle of Carteneau as the jewel of jewels in his fine collection, a rose without thorns. It was indeed an incandescent sight. The wind carried anguish, the cries of past sins, _Her_ past sins, and suffering through this madness were the ones _She_ called her children. "I've never heard Her cry like this before, but she will get no answers," he had said as Bahamut broke free. He laughed. "And I'd never thought the silly idea I'd told that fool Xande would end up playing out like this. I quite like it. Improvisation can give spectacular results."

Maybe yesterday he would have said that that battle was his favorite. But today he walked the field with more than his usual sense of revelry. That thorn, that _hero_ , the one they called The Warrior of Light, was here. This resounding loss not her first, but certainly her worst, and he wanted to find her, watch her cling to her dying friends. He wanted to lurk in the corner of the chiguerons tents and take in the wonderful aftermath of all his planning. He'd never actually seen her before. Nabriales, Igeyorhm, Lahabrea, they'd all given different accounts of her. If this was to be their first meeting he wanted a fitting stage.

As he walked further into the heart of the carnage there was a sound, no, not the right sense, a scent...a static in the wind? A specter in the smoke? There was something here that seemed familiar. "Nonsense" he said out loud. The familiar feeling had no place here. Did not have place anywhere, at all, except in a half forgotten past. Elidibus didn't remember, didn't want to remember. Lahabrea only remembered insomuch as it was useful to remember. He could always create new wonders in the future. But as this man continued his march, the feeling became a presence. "No," he said. "A trick, it's impossible. She's gone now. Forever lost."

He saw those that surely must be the hero's companions, crowded around a fallen comrade. He did not see the Warrior of Light herself among them, though. "Odd."

He strode closer.

"Get Y'Shtola, get Urianger! Now!" He recognized these two. The twins. The brother backed away slowly, mouth hanging open, and then ran as his sister had ordered. She was a fiery thing. But now her fury was aimless. The foe she wanted to fight was formless.

The presence was all around him now, pulsing. There, and then a shade. It pressed in on him, inundating him with sentiment he didn't want to confront right now. It was wrong, it shouldn't be here. She couldn't be here. Why was his memory doing this? There was nothing here that could invoke these unbidden memories. These feelings. He closed his eyes to get his bearings and opened them to the sister shouting at him.

"I said ‘who are you?’ Answer me!"

He looked at the body she was clutching to her chest.

He should have wanted to bow with a flourish. Announce himself. The great Emet-Selch. The one who could take credit for the splendid battle. For all of the opulent battles of the past, and for all of the magnificent dances yet to come before the curtain fell. He wanted to grin with pride. For there she was, the Warrior of Light, dying in her friend's arms.

This foe. The one he'd manipulated so many people to hunt for, to stalk, to battle. The one thing that had been standing in the way of the Eight Rejoining. She was there. Her aether slowly freezing.

"Answer me!"

"She's smaller than I'd been told. The tales about her made her seem at least 3 yalms tall."

"So, you've come to gloat, Ascian."

That was what he'd been here to do. And to have such a passionate audience would have, should have, thrilled him. This was the second act twist.

But it wasn't the Warrior of Light dying in front of him. He was in the presence of his dying friend. How had Lahabrea missed this? He could forgive Igeyorhm and Nabriales for missing this. But his unsundered friend should have seen this from the start. He should have recognized Azem.

But her aether was trickling away now, back into the lifestream. And even the greatest minds of Amaurot could not predict when a soul might come back. Or where.

But she had been right there. This whole time the enemy he wanted struck down was the stupid, reckless, stubborn!... partner, lover, friend he had lost.

He took a step forward, not thinking, just wanting to hold Azem while he still could, before he lost her again.

"Don't you _dare_ , Ascian!"

The rest of the Scions arrived, the pretty boy drew his blade, and he could feel the miqo'te pawing at his aether.

"Stand down, I don't want to play games right now." He held up his hand and waved as if their weapons were toys, unphased by them.

They didn't.

"I have some experience with finding souls in the lifestream. I'm sure, though, that _you've_ already figured that out," he said, nodding to the miqo'te. "Seeing as you've traveled it and returned whole to tell the tale."

"What do you want?" she said.

"Ah, the same thing everyone wants in the end, I suppose. Your hero is barely still here. I don't know if I can bring her back. I can try, though."

"Like an Ascian would want to do that," the brother said.

"Even Ascians do not want to part with their loved ones," he whispered. He raised his hands to the heavens. "May I at least try, oh grand heroes? To bring back the beloved Warrior of Light? The beacon of hope for this world? Is her life not worth a temporary alliance with an Ascian? Would you let the world succumb to this Calamity because of your pride?"

The miqo'te stood back, her arms crossed in defiance but a smile playing on her lips. "I see no reason we should not, if you are truly as great as you believe yourself to be, Ascian." The rest of the party lowered their weapons.

The sister wouldn't let go, though. He knelt down opposite her, nonetheless. Would this brash elezen let him touch her? He held out his hand anyway, though her glare might as well have stabbed him.

He wanted to believe his own words, that there was a chance of bringing her back. He'd been the one who ordered the production of Black Rose, one of the few people who knew how it actually worked and why, the one who oversaw the final experiments of it. He'd made sure there was no way to survive it. But if there was anyone who could survive it, it was her. If there was anyone who could heal it, it was him. Not just because of who they were, but who they were--long ago-- _to each other_. She the shepherd of life, and he of death. 

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, and for just a moment she opened her eyes. His Azem. He wanted to believe he saw a flicker of recognition. That maybe she remembered how she'd once lived.

But then he hoped she hadn't. That last day. That last fight. She would hate him today even if she had only resented him all those yesterdays ago.

And then she was gone. "I am sorry." He meant it for Azem. To apologize for what had passed between them. For not recognizing her. For the thousands of years he had persisted to re-make Amaurot with means she could not endorse or abide. For not choosing her in the end.

The Scions thought the apology was for them. The brother collapsed. The miqo'te stared into the aether, maybe trying to see what he was seeing. But no one here, none of those alive, could see what he saw. A city so majestic and monumental, this city that haunted his dreams of paradise lost. He was so, so sorry.

"Like hells you are!" The sister would surely be another snag in this plan.

"I truly am. But now I must get back to work." His somber reverie put aside, compartmentalized, to sift through those faded memories another time. He stood up and brushed his hands off. "And _do_ have fun cleaning this mess up, valiant heroes. I expect a stunning ending from the venerated Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Please don't disappoint me."

He turned his back on them and waved his hand in dismissal. There were other players on the stage, other scenes he still had to witness.

Other ways to forget the loss in the second act. But it would all pay off. The ending would be everything he wanted. It had to be. The ending would certainly be worth it.

The rains would cease, and Amaurot would be graced with another beautiful day. 

But she would not be there to see it.


End file.
